


War, and God, and Porthos

by R00bs_Teacup



Series: Canon Compliant Universe [4]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Canon Compliant, M/M, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-21
Updated: 2018-05-21
Packaged: 2019-05-09 22:06:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14724443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/R00bs_Teacup/pseuds/R00bs_Teacup
Summary: Just let them try and take Porthos again. Athos is vengeful





	War, and God, and Porthos

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Rhesascoffee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rhesascoffee/gifts).



> Rhesascoffee asked for a fill for the time Athos and d'Artagnan had to rescue Porthos from the Spanish, from Brothers in Arms episode in series three. 
> 
> WARNINGS: athos is super viscous. He has not got any mercy for anyone. violence.
> 
> I know that people might argue that Porthos/Athos is not in fact canon but eff you no one ever says they AREN'T queer and there is nothing in canon to say they DONT whatever. Also this isn't very shippy but they are in a relationship. so THERE

Porthos goes missing on the third day of a drawn out battle with the Spanish, a fight over three feet of ground that has no point to it. They’re under-supplied and there’s been a fever that some of the men still have, Porthos as usual had a great idea and they’ve been working at night in twos and threes, rush attacks. He was working with Monsieur Claude Lachy and neither man has checked in and no one’s found them. Athos decides they have been captured. The Spanish hold a fort, which would be a position worth fighting for but here they are fighting over three inches of front further down. Athos calls the men to him and they head for a town on their side and draw swords. Athos doesn’t usually go in for the rougher military tactics but now he sends his men through the town turning it upside down until he finds, hiding in a basement, a man who knows the fort. They take him. It’s only an hour before they get information about tunnels from him. It feels like a lifetime. Athos leaves the man tied up, uncaring. He gathers the last of their powder and shot and takes ten men, including d’Artagnan. At least it’s night. 

 

The tunnels are good intelligence and they’re old, not well known. The entrance is below the wall and out of sight. There’s a patrol, two men, but Ettienne (who  is one of Porthos’s men) slits one throat and Athos drives his blade right through the other man. The blood spurts but Athos doesn’t care, he walks through it, scrambling down into the undergrowth and through the rough into the tunnel. They move with stealth, working through the tunnels on a search pattern. Every exit they find is shut up, built across, dusty and closed off to them: unguarded because this is no way in. Athos turns to d’Artagnan and takes their powder, ignoring d’Artagnan’s frantic whispering. The next barred entryway they find Athos starts packing with powder. Ettienne, broader in the shoulder than anyone Athos has ever seen, stops him. Athos moves aside with a bow and Ettienne puts one big shoulder to the wood and brick, pushing. He backs away, breathless, then runs at it, leaping up the steps. The barrier shudders, stones coming away. The second go the wood shivers. Athos runs at it and then again and then Athos is up, bursting into a room right into the center of a bevy of Spanish soldiers coming to investigate. They fight silently, quickly, taking advantage of the element of surprise to keep the soldiers quiet. There are only six of them against ten French. Athos kills three of them and moves on, searching, moving low and quiet against the wall. He kills two more soldiers and then loses patience. The third soldier he comes across he holds by the mouth, close and tight and against the wall, his blade at the man’s stomach. 

 

“Where are your prisoners,” Athos whispers. The man spits. Athos sinks the knife slowly into flesh but gets nothing, so he yanks upward to spill his guts. Athos  pushes him away and moves on. 

 

Four more men and he’s had enough, he kicks in a door and catches a man naked, another knelt in uniform trousers, a third lying on a bed in nothing but a shirt. The man on his knees leaps up and the man on the bed spills wine all over himself, red mouth opening to raise an alarm. Athos throws his knife. Porthos used to do that. Athos told him off - a knife is useful in your hand not in your enemies, and unless it kills your enemy (which is unlikely) you are disarming yourself and arming them. His knife hits the man’s throat. He has other knives. And no other use for that one - he already has his sword between the shoulders of the man who was knelt, turning, still moving from his charge into the room. He pushes, meeting bone, they’re flung against a wall with the force. Athos pulls his sword free and twists, catching the naked soldier’s side. 

 

“Where are your prisoners?” Athos says, not keeping his voice down. He has lost track of his men but he’s half-aware of d’Artagnan in the doorway keeping watch, mouth tight, eyes dark with frustration. 

 

Athos doesn’t care. This man has no answers, he’s a sex worker, Athos can see the signs of syphilis on him. Athos doesn’t kill him, he throws him onto the bed with the dead man and leaves. d’Artagnan’s fighting by the door now, the ring of steel too loud. Athos charges past, his knife finding a soft stomach and yanking upwards again, his sword aimed right as a second man’s throat, right through. The third is just a boy, he drops his weapons and weeps, back against the wall. Athos grabs him and drags him to the top of some stairs, heading down. Halfway he lets go and boy falls into two soldiers. Athos follows with a leap, onto shoulders, thigh around a neck, using the butt of his sword against a temple and rolling as they come down, already up and kicking the other man into the wall. Athos cuts through the second man’s shoulder, up toward his throat. He opens his mouth to scream but Athos cuts him off with a gloved hand, holding tight until the man can’t breathe. 

 

“Where is Porthos,” Athos snarls, hurling them against the wall again, the soldiers’ head hitting with a sickening crack. 

 

No answers there. Athos plunges on, met by three men. Surely the alarm’s been raised by now. d’Artagnan’s at his back, breathless with anger as much as exertion. Athos knows the feeling. He uses brute force and precision to keep this fight quiet too, going back for the cowering boy. 

 

“Where is Porthos!” Athos repeats. 

 

“Athos?” says a familiar, stunned voice. 

 

Athos lets the boy goes and runs. Around a corner, coming out of a small tight room, is Porthos. He only steps forward half an inch, recognises Athos and reaches back. He has Lachy. Covered in blood, sweat-soaked, white Lachy. 

 

“You’re covered in blood,” Porthos says, eyes wide. “What did you do?”

 

“Come on,” d’Artagnan says, heading for Lachy. 

 

“Don’t touch,” Porthos says, reaching across to stop d’Artagnan and wincing. “It’s infected, he screams when you touch. Do you have a way out? We got out of the cells, caused a bit of a ruckus. I don’t know where anyone else is, one of the men knew the fort but he tried to kill me so I didn’t follow him.”

 

Athos nods. He’s still got hold of the boy. Porthos’s eyes are on the boy now. Then back to the blood that Athos can feel soaking into his skin and leather. Way out. Athos turns. 

 

*

 

d’Artagnan can’t stop staring at Athos as they make their way, quiet and stealthy again, back through the fort. Up the winding stairs and down the cold hallways, now littered with Athos’s dead. Porthos picks his way, between Athos and d’Artagnan. Ettienne melts out of a doorway and reports that he was successful in removing the tongue of the alarm-bell. Matthias and Jacques rejoin them, too, each with a whispered report of success in keeping their mission quiet. d’Artagnan left the men along the way in strategic positions to keep their exit clear and they’ve done a good job. They murmur numbers to d’Artagnan and d’Artagnan nods absently, gazing at Athos. There’s blood on his collar and neck, his skin stained red. His hands are red. His wrists. His shirt. There’s blood in his hair and in his teeth, when he snarled he spat blood. His own or someone else’s. d’Artagnan’s never seen him so vicious. He’s leading them now with single-minded focus, body in a crouch, moving fluidly. 

 

“Sir,” Francois whispers, coming up behind him. d’Artagnan hums. “They have an armoury.”

 

Porthos turns, his hearing always too good. He catches d’Artagnan’s eye, grim, and stands straighter. He taps Athos’s shoulder and Athos stops, still and waiting, while Porthos ever so carefully passes Lachy to Ettienne. Porthos’s hand lingers on Lachy’s cheek a moment before he turns away, head bent to Ettienne and then to Matthias. Matthias takes the lead and the men stream out past Athos, only Jacques, Thomas and Francois staying behind. And Athos still has hold of the young soldier. d’Artagnan waits to hear Porthos’s plan. 

 

**

 

They might find the other prisoners with the help of the Spanish man Athos has in his grip. Porthos holds Athos’s wrist until his fist releases then catches the man before he can fall. It probably wouldn’t be hard to get him to talk but Porthos tries kindness first, holding his elbow to keep him steady and then his shoulder and looking right into his eyes. Porthos understands enough Spanish to get the gist of ‘we planted a fake prisoner amongst you’. Not the man who knew the fort but another. Why he didn’t raise the alarm the man doesn’t know but he does know a few hiding places they might be using. Porthos gets his name - Garci - and follows him into the dark. They get lucky on Garci’s fourth try and only run across two guards. They discover the Spanish plant dead on the floor, only the injured or ill prisoners left. The others took off, those left don’t know where. Porthos sends the weaker of his new men downwards to retrace Athos’s steps, Francois with them. Jacques and Thomas he sends downwards in the other direction, with another party of those more able to fight, to clear out that way. He sends d’Artagnan back to the cells, with the last two prisoners, to ensure that their little visit is kept quiet. 

Athos and Porthos head upwards, staying quiet. They will be discovered, they’ve been lucky so far. They have Garci, though, and he knows where to go. The armoury is guarded and the clatter of their fight finally raises dusts and Garci, Athos’s knife moving off him to take out another soldier, shouts himself hoarse. From fear, Porthos thinks, grabbing him and pulling him into the armoury, Athos still fighting in the doorway. He trips backwards and Porthos shoves the door. They work quickly, bring down the bar across the door and then barricading themselves in, listening to the sounds of Spanish soldiers clattering up and filling the corridor outside. Porthos takes Athos’s scarf and gags Garci, then takes stock of where they are. 

 

The armoury is hardly well-stocked but it is stocked, lit by a single torch. Porthos has been in the dark for long time and the soft light is a relief even though it sends pain spiking through his temple. He puts that away with the rest. There are blades, knifes, empty guns. Things they already have. He finally finds shot and powder and gathers a little of both, taking them back to Athos.These they could do with. They just have to hold out long enough for Ettiene to bring reinforcements then they can bear all this back to their side of the line. They probably can’t take the fort today, but they can take the supplies. Garci watches wide eyed, skin very pale. Porthos loads a gun, cocks it, then ties Garci to it. He moves, he shoots himself. Garci holds very still. Athos raises an eyebrow which Porthos doesn’t even pay attention to seeing as Athos has someone’s insides on his jacket and blood in his eyelashes. 

 

Porthos swallows. Athos passes him water, which makes Porthos give an incredulous laugh. Athos smiles. 

 

“Hello,” Athos says. 

 

“Nice of you to turn up,” Porthos says. 

 

The door shudders. Porthos grins. He probably has blood on his face, too. Death is their business. This is war. Porthos crouches beside Garci. 

 

“Do you want to live?” Porthos whispers. Garci nods a very small nod. “Good. Stand up,” Garci does as he’s told, moving an increment at a time. The door shudders again. The soldiers in the corridor are shouting something. “Are you going to betray your country?” Porthos asks. Garci nods. His face is streaming with sweat and tears. He’s young. Porthos softens. “I’m not going to ask it of you,” Porthos decides, untying the gun. “We’re at war but I’m not that man. Square your shoulders, soldier. Lift your head. You’re not beat yet.”

 

He undoes the gag too and drops it. He holds the spanish soldier’s chin a moment, watches the man reach for his knife, stands still as he feels the cold steel against his stomach. Garci says something in Spanish. Porthos looks up at Athos. 

 

“He’s seen me gut a soldier a time or two, tonight, I think he intends to flatter me with imitation” Athos says, not moving. He has a knife against Garci’s throat. The door shudders. 

 

“Are you going to die for Spain?” Porthos asks. Garci nods. “I’m not dying for France, not here, not like this.”

 

Porthos feels the blade push against the leather of his jacket (he got that back first thing on getting out) and lets himself fall backwards. It feels like slow motion, the world falling away, Garci falling after him. Porthos lands painfully on his back and Garci lands on top of him. He’s not dead, his throat is intact, he’s just stunned. Porthos looks up and sees Athos holding a pistol. Athos shrugs. 

 

Porthos pushes the unconscious Garci off him, getting back to his feet. He and Athos load the pistols, laying them out on the floor, pushing over a table for cover. The door shudders and then shatters under the sharp retort of an explosion; they must have powder elsewhere. No matter. Porthos rises up, shooting, Garci’s unconscious body laid out on the floor between their cover and the tide of incoming Spanish soldiers. 

 

**

 

d’Artagnan clears the cells. Porthos and the man who ‘knew the cells’ but wanted to kill Porthos have done a good job, there’s no guards here. The two men with d’Artagnan direct him from what they remember, making their way carefully. The ‘rukus’ Porthos caused must have been a quiet rukus, there’s no signs of it. One of d’Artagnan’s two men opens a cell door to show d’Artagnan eight guards, unconscious and chained up. There’s been no alarm. d’Artagnan wonders if he should file a review with the Spanish or something: the fort was nice, security could use some work, maybe try check ins and patrols. He finds three more prisoners, sat at the guards’ table playing cards, two men who look like maybe there were a patrol dead on the floor. When he asks them what in hell they think they’re doing one of them shrugs, another says they couldn’t find the way out. d’Artagnan points his sword at them, frustrated, but takes them with him as he works his way back up again. The alarm goes before he gets halfway up to Porthos’s position and the armoury and he changes direction, heading instead for the others. They were weak and injured. He meets Jacques in a doorway, in the shadows, keeping watch, bringing up the rear. They’re headed up toward Porthos. d’Artagnan grins. 

 

It’s slow going, there are Spanish soldiers everywhere now, all rushing for the armoury. Some clatter down and finally yell out that the prisoners are gone. d’Artagnan enjoys listening as the Spanish discover their voiceless bell. He whispers orders to the men, deploying them to stop messengers as quietly as they can. Porthos taught him that, to cut off communication, cut off calls for reinforcements. They move in twos and threes, spreading out, moving doorway to doorway, knives finding throats and stomachs. As they converge on the armoury d’Artagnan draws his pistol, letting go of stealth. He can hear another gun somewhere, a French curse. He sees the red of Thomas’s hair in the distance, sword reflecting a torch. Then they’re all fighting. It’s hard to keep track of things in the confined space, so many bodies around him. He’s not sure how long his fights, back against one of the man he had with him, maybe named Marin or Marcis. They hold their ground. There’s an explosion and he can hear Porthos bellowing behind that, behind a door too far to reach. d’Artagnan fights his end, running quickly out of shot. He kicks his companion’s heel and they pause, d’Artagnan stoods and drags one of the soldiers to cover, searching him quickly for more ammunition. 

 

They can’t get anywhere, there are too many Spanish soldiers and d’Artagnan can see French prisoners on the ground around him as things whirl in a flurry of red and sword and the explosion of guns. His hair feels singed. He steps on someone. There’s only a wall at his back when he retreats, whoever was with him is gone, dead or lost in the battle. d’Artagnan twists, sword finding his attacker, and hears a shot behind him. He turns, unsure if he’s hit, knife up. A Spanish soldier falls against him, eyes wide. There’s a roar and d’Artagnan sees Ettienne sweeping down the corridor, snatching up a torch and skipping into a run, eight men surging in his wake, a further twelve coming up from other positions. 

 

**

 

They take the armoury and from there it’s a matter of when to escape and how to carry things. Those healthy and whole take barrels on shoulders, crates between two, arms loaded. The others fill pockets with shot, backs and sacks and whatever they can find. What they can’t bring with them they use fuses, ignite it at their backs as they sprint back down the tunnels, calling to each other to move faster. They break out and pelt away from the fort, their exit held by the rest of the regiment who join them as they run. They slow as they reach the cover of trees and spread out, breaking apart and moving in threes and fours back to French ground and their camp. Athos keeps at Porthos’s shoulder, fed up now with this rigmarole. He drops his load as soon as they reach their camp, ignoring d’Artagnan, catching hold of Porthos. 

 

“Lachy,” Porthos says. “Saved my life. Is he gonna die?”

 

“Matthias is going to amputate his arm,” Ettienne says, over-seeing their new supplies and hearing Porthos’s question. “He’s done it before, Pepin hasn’t. Pepin wants to watch, he’s a gruesome boy isn’t he, our little medic?”

 

Porthos goes anyway, ignoring Athos’s grip on his arm. Athos yanks as they pass his tent and Porthos, to Athos’s surprise, comes away, stumbling. Athos takes advantage and drags him inside, letting the flap of canvas close behind them. He pushes and Porthos sits. 

 

“You are hurt,” Athos accuses. “And you are fevered again.”

 

“You say it like it’s my fault,” Porthos grumbles. 

 

Athos fights Porthos’s dirty shirt off him and finds deep bruising all over his shoulders and back, a weeping knife wound against his side where Garci’s knife must have slipped before Athos knocked him out, an older wound on his chest. His shoulder’s swollen. 

 

“You dislocated it again,” Athos says. 

 

“Yeah,” Porthos says, giving up. “Twisted my knee too.”

 

“I should have killed Garci.”

 

“No. Gotta stop sometime.”

 

“I have let you go too many times,” Athos says. “They take you and I give in. Not this time. Not here.”

 

“You have blood in your mouth, Athos.”

 

Athos spits. It’s not his. He finds them water and then kneels before Porthos, not touching. Not yet. He’s still burning with rage. If he were Aramis he’d have something poetic to say, maybe something like they can have France and wage war against God for all Athos cares but they won’t be having Porthos back. Instead he pours water into a bowl and wets a cloth. The grime and dust and dirt is worked into Porthos’s skin, hot under Athos’s hands, familiar. Athos takes his time, moving carefully over Porthos’s wounds and bruises, getting the dirt off but then soothing, afterwards, running the cloth over Porthos, easing shivers with his hands. The water’s cold and Porthos is fevered so sometimes it’s nice, Porthos’s eyes going heavy, but sometimes he shivers like he’s going to come to pieces. Athos still takes his time, charting every inch of Porthos, keeping a tally to take out of some Spanish soldiers’ flesh next time they battle. 

 

“You’re very quiet when you’re vengeful,” Porthos says, yawning, sitting still and calm under Athos’s cleaning. 

 

Athos drops the cloth in the bowl of grimy, bloody water and takes Porthos’s feet against his thigh one by one. The Spanish took his boots, these aren’t Pothos’s boots they must have taken them. Porthos took some Spanish ones though. A boot for a boot. Athos smiles as he removes them. Porthos’s feet are bare underneath and rubbed red in places but not bad. Athos gets up and finds Porthos some stockings and a shirt. His trousers will never fit Porthos, Porthos’s clothes are in Porthos’s tend only Athos’s are here. The trousers Porthos is wearing are his own, not Spanish, and not too bad. When Athos removes them his underthings look fine. Athos finds a blanket and drapes it around Porthos’s shoulders while he sets to work putting two stitches into Graci’s knife-wound. 

 

“I’m nearly done,” Athos tells Porthos, as Porthos shudders, the needle biting into him for the second time. 

 

Porthos used to yell and writhe for this, lashing out, punching whoever was stitching him (usually Aramis). Now he sits shivering, head lowered. He hasn’t fought stitching this war. Athos misses it. 

 

“I want to hear. For Lachy,” Porthos says. “He saved my life, shot a man who had a pistol on me. I didn’t even see.”

 

Athos nods, tying his thread. They have no bandages. Porthos puts the shirt on without pause; he’s too used to going without, too used to war and injuries that they don’t have time to fix properly and look after. And he’s cold again. Athos takes a deep breath and looks up into Porthos’s eyes, getting up so he can reach, can touch Porthos’s face, his lip and cheek, behind his ear, can wrap around him and pull him up too, can hold his head and press their foreheads close, cheek to cheek, Athos doesn’t have poetic words, can’t tell Porthos how much Porthos means to him, how much Porthos is loved, how much he’s needed. How much Athos loves him and continually finds new depths, more of it and more. Athos can’t tell him and so he stands there pressing against Porthos and breathing hard, lips against whatever skin is at his mouth, kissing and kissing, pushing against Porthos until their lips meet and kissing him. 

 

“Lost you,” Athos breathes, finally, letting it out from where it’s been caught for all this time, trapped behind his breast bone like it’s going to break him getting away, his mouth hurts, his throat sharp and jagged tearing the words.

 

It cracks him open and his fingers clench in his own shirt, tight on Porthos, biting into Porthos, kissing his neck and cheek and lips and nose and earring, pushing him and then tugging, yanking Porthos close, his body hard and wiry with fight and no supplies and fever. The loss of him makes Athos drag against him, makes Athos pull him down to kneel on the floor damn his twisted knee, makes him haul Porthos into his lap against his chest and wrap him close rocking him, arms around his head and chest and heaving him up so his head’s on Athos’s shoulder, close enough to kiss, for Athos’s mouth to press to him. Athos is weeping, gasping against grief he doesn’t need to feel now. 

 

“You’re here,” he whispers. “I have you. I have you.”

 

Porthos doesn’t speak, heavy in Athos’s arms, not fighting him. Athos spreads his thighs so Porthos is closer, holds him closer and gentles himself all over. He breathes deeply and shifts so he’s sitting, so he can use his legs to bring Porthos in, tuck him close and safe. 

 

“You’re safe,” Athos whispers. “They won’t take you from me.”

 

Porthos just nods.


End file.
